


with quiet words i'll lead you in

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon!Stiles, M/M, inspired by episode 3.18, it's 2am i cannot be held responsible, slight 3b spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s angry, now, Derek’s made damn sure of that, and he’s given himself some distance but it’s sizing him up, calculating, and if Derek doesn’t act soon he’ll miss his chance, end up right back where he started but worse.</p><p>“Stiles,” he says calmly, eyes set straight on Stiles’ honey-brown ones, “Stiles, I need you to listen to me.”</p><p>The nogitsune cackles, a raw, ugly sound grating on Stiles’ vocal cords, half-angry, half-amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with quiet words i'll lead you in

**Author's Note:**

> This is a quick thing I cranked out after watching 3x18 (Riddled) because demon!Stiles does things to me and it's really late and I have a lot of emotions that I don't know what to do with.
> 
> Title is from Anberlin's The Unwinding Cable Car.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> There is a slight off-hand remark regarding Derek's relationship with Kate Argent which could be taken as a statutory rape implication, as well as some non-consensual touching. If these make you uncomfortable, please be cautious about whether or not you decide to continue!
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

There’s an explosion, a crack of sound followed by a burst of something slamming into the side of his face, his jaw is broken, unhinged and crumpled--

“--with me, Derek?” 

He blinks slowly, the blur in front of his eyes beginning to form shapes, there’s a familiar smirk looming over him, this is familiar, this has happened before, always smacking him awake--

Another explosion, this time striking his other cheek, this time he’s a little more aware, sees the hand fly toward him fast as a flash of lightning, he needs to make his lips work, he’s awake now, he needs to tell Stiles, needs to let him know he’s--

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

Derek’s brow furrows, Stiles is smirking, like after one of his jokes, but he hasn’t said anything funny, nothing about this is funny, Derek is so disoriented, so confused, why can’t he figure out what’s going on?

“You alright?” Stiles asked, amused, and Derek’s head snaps back up at him, suddenly struck with a combination of scents so conflicting and potent his head is spinning once more. 

“I’m,” he says distantly, beginning to push himself up from the concrete floor, and where are they, anyway, how did they get here?

Stiles reaches out a hand, long fingers outstretched and welcoming, and Derek raises one of his own to take it, the ground is cold and he wants to get up, but then Stiles takes a step forward and Derek’s supporting hand is swiftly kicked out from under him, and he lands on his other hand just in time to prevent knocking his chin clear against the concrete but it’s close, it hurts his wrist with the weight of him, and _what the fuck is going on_?

The last of the clouded confusion from being unconscious leaves his mind, his acute senses are locking into place, and something is _wrong_. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle, claws are beginning to poke out of his fingers, fangs growing from his gums.

“There it is,” Stiles says calmly, and when Derek turns to look at him he freezes; it’s clearly Stiles in front of him, same upturned nose, mess of hair, moles dotting his face and neck, same long limbs and fingers, same scent, somewhere underneath the chaos of odors clouding his nose. But though it’s obviously Stiles, it’s so obviously _not_ Stiles at the same time, the cold smirk, the eyes so dark and devoid of emotion they could be dead and unseeing.

“What’s going on?” Derek growls as the mess of scents grows even stronger. He’s trying to piece them apart, separate them and label them and figure out what the hell is going on, but it makes no sense, there’s Stiles and not-Stiles, there’s fear and anxiety and there’s excitement, and there’s something distinctly Not Good, but there’s nobody else here--wherever here is--except for Stiles.

“I just wanted to talk, Derek,” Stiles says, and for a second Derek thinks he might have been imagining it, that nothing is wrong, but then the smirk creeps along Stiles’ lips like something slimy and perverse, and Derek shrinks back.

“Okay, fine, maybe I want a little bit more than that,” Stiles says lowly, taking a step closer to eliminate the space Derek just created.

“What are you?” Derek whispers, because he doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows that it’s not Stiles standing in front of him, somehow.

There’s something inhuman standing in front of him, something corrupt and rancid wearing Stiles’ face, and it’s pulling Stiles’ lips even further into that disgusting sneer, and it’s stretching and curling Stiles’ fingers like it’s preparing for something, and it sweeps Stiles’ tongue quickly across Stiles’ lips, and then it shrugs Stiles’ shoulders, expression changing into something that would look like guilt if it weren’t so dark and twisted.

“Alright, you caught me,” it says, pulling Stiles’ hands up into a gesture of surrender, but the movement is slow and controlled, so unlike Stiles’ typical wild gesticulations. “I’m--

“The nogistune,” Derek finishes with an exhale, and then there are goosebumps rippling across his skin, because he might not be the one speaking, but Stiles is _in there_ , and then his lungs are on fire and his instincts kick into overdrive and he’s launching himself at the thing wearing Stiles’ skin before he can think about it, like he wants to claw open his flesh to somehow reach Stiles on the inside, but before he can think better of it the demon is grabbing his wrists easily, so easily, and he’s pressing bruises in the shape of Stiles’ fingerprints deep into Derek’s bones, and there’s no time for them to heal because the pressure just keeps coming, and Derek is gasping, knees trying their hardest to buckle underneath him, and the nogitsune is pulling Stiles’ lips into a cruel smirk once again, holding him steady like it’s nothing.

“You know, Derek,” he jeers, “I’ve had quite the, um, experience getting to know my way around in here.” Derek refuses to meet its eye, but then it grips tighter, yanks him to the side so his head snaps, and Derek is smart enough to know not to look away again.

“It’s sort of a mess, Stiles’ head,” it continues, “but I’m sure you knew that. What you don’t know, I’m willing to bet, is exactly what he thinks of you. Do you know, Derek?” And Derek uses every ounce of his willpower not to squeeze his eyes shut, to continue to look the demon straight in the eyes and hope that somehow it’s making it through, that Stiles is in there somewhere and can read the apology in his eyes.

The nogistune jerks him again, grip squeezing impossibly tighter. “I asked you a question, Derek,” it bites out, and Derek feels his jaw twitch. _Of course I do_ , he thinks, _of course_. He wrenches his head swiftly to the side, and the hands around his wrists loosen the slightest bit.

“You think you do,” the nogistune says, “I’m sure you can smell it on him, the disgusting, sad little teenage hormones probably reek whenever you’re around him. But I think you underestimate the severity of his feelings for you, Derek. He loves you. It’d be cute, actually, if it weren’t for all the other thoughts. You know, the naughty ones. They’re almost surprising, actually, after what you’ve been through. The things he thinks about, what he wants you to do to him.”

Derek lets out a low growl, but it only encourages it, Stiles’ face moving closer until his lips are ghosting next to Derek’s ear, a quiet, dead laugh pouring out. Derek shivers.

“I’m going to tell you, then,” it says lowly, and Derek nearly gags, stomach twisting.

“D-don’t,” he chokes out, and something in the nogitsune snaps, cool composure broken, and then Derek is hurtling forward, wrists still hopelessly bound by Stiles’ long fingers, and then he’s flush against Stiles’ body, chests and hips aligned, and the nogitsune is twisting Stiles’ mouth again, each time that horrifying smirk works its way across his face Derek feels like he could vomit, it’s so inherently wrong and twisted and he needs to do something, but there’s nothing he can think of, he’s too weak, always too weak to be there for the people he’s supposed to save.

“Maybe I should just show you,” it rumbles, leaning forward and flicking Stiles’ tongue out, sweeping it across Derek’s exposed throat. Derek flinches violently, head snapping back so fast that it sends a shooting pain through his neck, and he’s trying as hard as he possibly can to keep his eyes open because he knows there are flashbacks waiting for him behind his eyelids, and right now he doesn’t know what’s worse, the memories or the horror before him, all he knows is he can’t handle this, he can’t.

“See, the thing about boys,” it’s saying, “is that, unlike girls, they can keep up. Fight back. And you like that, don’t you, Derek? Someone that isn’t afraid to push back a little, to take what he wants instead of waiting for you to give it,” and then there’s a hand on his thigh and Derek is trembling, trying so hard to stop himself but he can’t, it’s beyond his realm of control, and it’s just grinning at him, and he realizes that he has an open hand, Stiles’ fingers don’t quite wrap around both wrists, he can pull out, he just needs to time it--

“Stiles thinks about it a lot, taking what he wants--”

Derek’s hand swings back and around, heel of his hand connecting with the underside of Stiles’ nose, and there’s a loud crack that would be satisfying if it were anyone else’s face in front of him, but it’s Stiles, and there’s nothing that can be done because a broken nose is worth saving his life.

It’s angry, now, Derek’s made damn sure of that, and he’s given himself some distance but it’s sizing him up, calculating, and if Derek doesn’t act soon he’ll miss his chance, end up right back where he started but worse.

“Stiles,” he says calmly, eyes set straight on Stiles’ honey-brown ones, “Stiles, I need you to listen to me.”

The nogitsune cackles, a raw, ugly sound grating on Stiles’ vocal cords, half-angry, half-amused. 

“You fucking idiot, he can’t hear you,” it says darkly, but Derek doesn’t react, forces himself to look past the demon and see _Stiles_ in there, Stiles, who speaks at a million words a second and loves too fiercely and trusts too easily, who is clever and cunning and sincere and loyal, and who is not going to die tonight, is not going to be lost or left behind, even if it means Derek fighting until there’s absolutely nothing left of him to give.

“Stiles, I need you to fight this,” he says again, voice infinitely more level than he feels, “I need you to fight it. I know you can.” And that’s apparently the last straw, the demon is charging Stiles toward him, wild-eyed and feral and so un-Stiles that Derek doesn’t even think twice about slashing at him, ripping the material of his shirt and skimming the edge of his skin, leaving it angry red and dotted with blood.

It comes at him again, and Derek is ready this time, grabbing it and holding, using all of his resolve and all of his muscle to hold Stiles in place at the shoulders, pressing firmly into his biceps, and it’s fighting, it’s stronger, Derek knows, but Derek has its arms pinned and now it can’t gain the momentum it needs to wriggle out of his grasp. Derek shoves it back into the wall, and it’s flailing wildly, trying to tear out of Derek’s grip, but Derek is holding tight, weaving his face around Stiles’ jerking head.

“Stiles,” he says, and then he yells it, he starts to scream, doesn’t even know what words are coming out, not really, just some combination of _Stiles, fight it, please, I need you to fight it, I need you to do this, I need you, Stiles, please_ , and the boy in his arms is twisting violently, and his scent is changing every second, from Stiles to not-Stiles and back again, and he’s grunting and screaming, inhuman, guttural sounds and then shrieks that sound more decidedly human, Derek knows something is happening in there so he just keeps screaming, his throat is all but shredded raw and he distantly feels the tears rolling down his cheeks to match Stiles’, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters excepting getting Stiles back, all the way, and then Stiles stops moving so fast, stops screaming, and now he’s just breathing hard, too hard, too quickly, and Derek loosens his grip slightly, waits a beat to gauge the situation. 

He smells like Stiles--terrified, broken Stiles, but still predominantly Stiles, and the thing is still in there, Derek thinks, he can smell that, too, but right now Stiles is in the driver’s seat, and Stiles is hyperventilating in his arms, and Stiles is having a panic attack, it looks like, and Derek is just standing there, watching it happen.

So he loosens his grip more, lets it become a comfort instead of a restraint, places a hand gingerly on each of Stiles’ shoulders and brings his face close, slowly, allowing Stiles room to jerk backwards if he needs, but he doesn’t, so Derek brings his lips to Stiles ear and mumbles into it, _it’s okay, Stiles, breathe with me, it’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, just breathe, c’mon, with me, like this_.

They stand like that for minutes, breathing slowly, Derek holding one of Stiles’ palms flat against his chest so Stiles can feel his breathing and imitate it, until some of the color has returned to Stiles’ cheeks and he’s wheezing less and truly breathing more, and he’s still shaking but it’s less, Derek isn’t afraid he’s going to tremble himself into a pile of broken limbs anymore, so Derek takes a step back, hand still on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles takes a shaky, sizable inhale and finally looks up at him, nods slightly, and Derek removes his hand, steps back.

“I,” Stiles starts, voice wrecked and raw, “I’m not--”

“Don’t,” Derek says seriously, looking Stiles right in the eyes.

“But-”

“Stiles,” he says firmly, and Stiles reluctantly closes his mouth, eyes on the ground. Derek sighs. “Look,” he says quietly, waiting for Stiles to meet his gaze before he continues, “I’m--there are things we need to talk about. But not right now.”

Stiles just nods. After knowing him for so long, Derek knows by his expression that there are mountains of things he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks solemn and ashamed, and manages to choke out “it’s still in me.”

“I know,” Derek says calmly, “I know. We’ll figure it out. All of it.”

“But what if we d-”

“We will.”

“Okay.”

Stiles ducks his head again, and Derek doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so small and broken, and he can’t stand it, he surges forward, wraps Stiles in his arms, like he can physically glue the pieces back together, but he knows he can’t, of course he can’t, nothing is ever that easy, there’s a lot more going on here that they need to figure out, nothing is simple with them.

Stiles shifts in his arms, tilts his head up to look at Derek, into his eyes, and Derek knows the thing is still in there, somewhere, but right now the gaze is all Stiles, warm and soft and inviting, even after what just happened, and Derek feels something swell in his chest.

“Thank you,” Stiles whispers, and Derek is shaking his head. “Don’t.”

“No, Derek, really,” Stiles protests, frustrated, “just--I’m saying it, I mean it, really, tha-”

And then Derek is pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and somehow they feel different, so different than when they were against his neck, now they feel like Stiles, and maybe there’s still a lot to do, but, for now, Stiles is Stiles again, and Derek’s brain is igniting, and right now that’s all that Derek is able to gauge as important.


End file.
